


The British Home Front  (1939-1941)

by derogatory



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Attempted Rape, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2012-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 21:22:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derogatory/pseuds/derogatory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the invasion of Poland, England declared war on Nazi Germany and participated in the defense of the Western Front, the Norwegian Campaign, the Battle of France, and the subsequent Battle of Britain and Blitz bombings on British soil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The British Home Front  (1939-1941)

France returned to the line, sheepish and confused, as if he couldn’t remember why he’d wandered into enemy territory to begin with. England reluctantly returned to his side and watched the taller man’s perplexed expression, waiting to hear distant gunfire.

“On second thought, let’s wait here,” France said at last, his hands on England’s shoulders, his warm, flushed face pressed to the other man’s cheek. England batted him away and climbed to the highest point. France reclined in the grass below him with the ease of an afternoon picnic. When England squinted, he could see the fires of Warsaw.

“ _Non_ , that’s the sun,” France corrected, settling in for a nap.

Along the line, England also tried to sleep when he couldn’t handle waiting any longer. When the pit in his stomach felt as deep as the trenches, he curled in on himself against the dirt, crushing his eyes closed and keeping the rifle closer. 

Once he would start to fall asleep, France would prod him awake.

“Look at the stars,” he whispered, jerking England’s resistant face up to the blackening, lifeless sky. “They’re telling us our good fortune, yes?” England irritably glared up. France was so proud of his home, but you couldn’t really see stars in that place, under would-be battle conditions. 

Every so often one of them would wake up, wide eyed and feverish in the dark, sure they heard a shot. France didn’t want England to know he had these nightmare moments too, but, curled reluctantly close for warmth, England was a light sleeper. 

After a while, when no battles came to them, England considered inventing one of their own. Germany will want to use Sweden, he explained, pressing out the map on the table between him and France. It would be in their best interest to then gain Norway’s help beforehand and use him as a way to block Germany. He smirked, proud of these war plans taking place on a field other than those disgusting trenches.

France leered, leaning his face against one hand, slouched easily over his war seat.

“You’re adorable when you try to take charge, _Angleterre_.” England bristled but ignored the comment. At least up north France would have to show some decorum and wear a shirt.  


  


* * *

  


 

Norway owned a miserable, infeasible strip of land that somehow wore them thin and war weary before the battles had really commenced. Alongside Finland’s fighting with the Bolsheviks, theirs seemed more like a Winter Disaster. 

France squinted furiously through the snowstorms marches. England stormed along side, so busy plotting how to better coordinate their attacks that he missed Germany’s advance, bursting from Denmark’s home. A crack across the face and Germany left England stunned in the muddy snow, bogged down with a welling bruise. He moved onto France, and the two of them became the dull thud of footsteps and gunshots against the ground. England breathed deep and sputtered, choked, drowned- France pulled him back to his feet, warm in their camp back in the Low Countries.

"Stay still," France ordered sternly. England, with unprecedented obedience, went rigid and motionless, trying to place the last time he had heard the blond use those kinds of tones on him. Maybe during the Great War (it didn't seem so great now, he added wryly, at least more interesting than this _waiting_ ). Maybe it was all the way back when he was still a child, cautiously peering around France's legs at the wide world before them, beyond the meager sea that separated him from the main land.

Iodine burning on his cheek, England jerked his head away, but France coaxed him back.

"Oh, he took it easy on you, didn’t he?" He smiled amiably, trying to appear pleasant. England looked through his lashes in an effort to appear as though he _wasn’t_ looking, and saw the remnants of a black eye reflected against him. France’s left leg hung at his side, cushioned with thick bondages and splints, nearly useless. 

Chuckling in disapproval, France caught his eye. England huffed, turning away as France rang out the cloth over the bowl. The water had nearly frozen while they idled.

France tossed his voice over a shoulder, "Has he written back?" 

"No," he grumbled, chewing on a lip.

"He'll write back." France assured him easily, dabbing cold water along their pink burns. Fussing, England tasted blood in his mouth again and tried to stop his fidgeting. It was just the interminable waiting. He’d send another telegram to America in the evening- it would be morning then.  


  


* * *

  


 

Trapped low, France lost his footing and fell over and over again, trapped underneath Germany's sudden animal advances. England staggered into the water for protection from the fire and smoke that followed. The water seemed warm to how England’s blood froze and curled, listening to France scream. It went on all night. 

England crouched deep in the water, waiting for a rescue while Germany’s steel steady pounds resonated through the waves. France called for England once or twice, sobbing, and England shot stone still, praying his ally (not his enemy) hadn’t seen his retreat. He wanted to sink even deeper into the water, deep enough that he froze his ears to stop hearing, his eyes to stop seeing, his neck to stop breathing. 

The fire got so bright France’s writhing, struggling form disappeared (or burned away) and England’s eyes seared. By morning the smoke had swollen them shut, which was a late blessing. His body was so dosed in the murky water that he climbed into the artisan’s boat like a river demon. Wrapped in the civilian’s blankets, their jackets, England could almost remember the sound of the kappa’s voice, harking him towards the pond in Japan’s garden. 

Blinded, he could see Japan’s careful, skeptical, gentle face over the tea cup. The kappa leads children into the water to drown them, he warns after a long sip. The water saved this demon, England thought deliriously. 

Falling asleep, he felt France’s great hands around his tiny ones, and scouted the world from his brother’s broad shoulders.  


  


* * *

  


 

France lives, his friend beamed, burned and bloody and in an enemy’s uniform. His smiles were only half expressions, face still blotchy with tears for a surrender. England regarded the ghost carefully, knowing full well he left his belief in France off those beaches. 

France is lucky, Canada assured him. He can keep some of his sovereignty. He can still help us! But all England could see was a man he left for dead, grinning unconvincing under the enemy colors.

"If we win," England began. "I'll take care of you." France sent him a knowing smile, tight under the strained lines of his face. "Even though you surrendered, you're still my ally, and our enemy is Germany." With a heave of relief, France threw out his arms for an embrace. England, who started at the sudden movement, brought up his rifle.

"And I won't have Germany using you against me." It had been explicitly clear. England would defend himself for years if necessary, and alone if necessary

"England-" France reeled, stepping backwards. The white bandage over his brow was a perfect match for the face whitened with anger and dread.

"I'm being very fair," England insisted honestly, and struck France with the butt of his gun, battering him into a second surrender.  


  


* * *

  


 

England stared across the channel at Germany and Italy, pacing the shores. Aggressor Italy, a tiny silhouette in the distance, seemed like a low and repulsive character to England, and only centuries of good breeding prevented him from throwing stones. Germany was a steady, thundering force along those distant docks, and England could feel dread pooling inside him as well. 

When he struck out at a distance and England lashed back, meeting each other at evens. He wasn’t sure if, crossing that Channel and striking out at his enemy, he had made any difference. But England conceded that if Germany was bruised and out of bed, seeking a shelter from his attacks- maybe that was just the only prize he could win alone.

He always returned to his own shore so sure someone was right behind him ( but there was nothing over his shoulder). The tiger pacing Germany disappeared inside the rolling fog. The northern French beaches were vacant when the visibility eventually returned. 

England doused his feet in the summer water, rolling up his pant legs and testing the temperatures. He peered across the divide with his old, childish wondering of the world beyond the brief sea. Unlike before, he had a vague idea what was beyond the water- failures and betrayals and misery. Searching out France’s homeland with failing eyes, England could feel his guilt catching up to him. He slipped on a few rocks climbing back to the shore, following the Thames back into the city. The Luftwaffe dogged his footsteps.  


  


* * *

  


 

Germany made a sick habit of lighting one city up and burning it out. That was what had driven Spain mad, staggering under old regimes and new strongholds. Spain was weak though, England told himself, pulling black over every yellow, stepping lightly through the business districts. That destruction and desperation wouldn’t happen in his home, he assured himself blithely, curled in for sleep.

Germany’s weight on his chest woke him up just before the first blow, so stunningly hard it threw blood from his face against the headboard, the walls of the bedroom. He reeled and hissed, pinned tight underneath the other man’s assault, great one arm pinning both over England’s head. He shrieked as a free hand ripped back the blankets, the bed clothes. Panicked in the dark, England thrust his knee up hard. Germany retreated in an instant, through the ash, and England lay sputtering blood for hours before he felt he could move again. 

When the sun rose, he went to the mirror to twist his bloodied expressions in the reflection. In the back of his mind, England wasn’t sure if the attack in the middle of the night had been real. There was damage outside, of course, but it seemed so sudden and surreal. Germany in his house- his bed- tugging after his clothes. He flushed in the glass and went about his daily business, wearing long sleeves to cover the bruises. There wasn’t any ice to sooth his wounds- all the power had been knocked out.  


  


* * *

  


 

A telegram from America finally arrived, short and snide in bold print. _Democracy is finished in Britain_ , America said, a cold retort. Furious, England clawed under his makeshift bandages, ripping free new wounds. What does that brat know about sacrifice, or hardship, or even a real battle beyond his flimsy heroism. Each time he closed his eyes, he was sure he saw the flash of gun fire, the burst of artillery flames just beyond their lids. It never mattered- he could see Germany coming but had to take the blows all the same.  


  


* * *

  


 

The next night the eastern facing side of the house disappeared. England peered cautiously over the ruined floorboards that simply ended, gaping into the morning air. He moved his things to the cellar, just in case and sifted through the wreckage idly. 

At around lunch time, explosions and fire broke out, bringing the entire house collapsing in on him. Germany’s figure seemed just beyond the smoke- but never pressed against him. An invasion was only a matter of time. Frantic, England stayed up the entire night, at one point wondering which ruined room of his house he was lurking in. 

In the morning, Germany slammed his skull into the ground. England felt a terrified wave of expectancy for Germany’s closeness, and tore back wildly, like some feral child in the moors. He’d lost the idea that he wanted this stoic enemy to speak to him- to be the first voice he’d heard in months. All he wanted to hear was the crack of his fists against Germany’s ugly face. When the enemy disappeared (silent, in an instant), England took to the streets in a stagger, surely concussed.  


  


* * *

  


 

America had a wide, toothy expression like a child bringing home a perfect report card, or like a dog with a game bird in his mouth. It was the first thing England saw when he opened his eyes, the other man peering so intently over him his glasses almost slipped off the end of his nose. It seemed like a strange dream, America- treacherous, cowardly America- being there. England growled and tried to sit up.

“What’s going on?” he groaned, then suddenly, stunned at the scenery change, “We’re in the underground.” 

“The subway,” America corrected and whistled low, twisting his head to look as far down each line of track. England stared after the man’s presence in confusion, trying to remember when this had all happened. “I gotta hand it to you,” America beamed. “You’re like, putting up one hell of a resistance. This junk would drive me crazy!”

“How did I get here?” he snapped. England tried very hard not to let his gaps in memory visibly affect him.

“Well- you said it’s safe down here, after the palace-” America broke off uncertainly as the lights overhead swung, while the ceiling rumbled with the force of the explosions. Plaster crackled and dropped, shattering against the platform. His former child was watching him with a irritable, worried expression- as if he had any claims to be concerned for his abandoned mentor. 

“Look, I’m sorry about what I sa-”

“What are you doing here?” England cut in derisively, using the wall to help ease him into a comfortable sitting position. America was grinning again, though somewhat more forced as he showed off his gift arsenal. England could vaguely remember that agreement, buried deep in his file cabinets, burned up and charred after each of Germany’s visits. He tugged the weaponry close, these tools for victory. 

“So you aren’t staying.” He wasn’t sure if his voice sounded pleased or disappointed at that fact- he still wasn’t sure where his opinion lied either. 

“Maybe like, next year,” America said unconvincingly, reaching out to squeeze England’s hands. He yanked away from his pity, from being seen so burnt and wounded. 

After America left, Britain slipped into a scared sleep, sometime thinking the bursts above were a train racing through the station, or German boots on his property. A bomb fell through the entrance to the tunnels, bouncing down the long stairwell and onto the platform. It jarred England’s fever dreams with its soft clicking, like an alarm clock about to sound. 

He dug himself free with one working arm. England shuffled his feet along the stone, covering his mouth with a sleeve as the fire billowed from the remaining structures around him. The air was too hot to breathe, and the ground seared at his feet (he left without his shoes). The streets were lined with smoke, crowding like human bodies. England wandered through the haze for days, feeling the skin along his arms sizzle and pop, reaching out in the smog for support. When he felt a wall, it burned down into his fingerprints. He crouched in the garden, fingers in his mouth like a child, gun at his feet.  


  


* * *

  


 

When he woke up again, France was curled next to him, a prisoner and free all at once, and still as annoying as ever. England shrugged him away and sat up, finding his burns had been bandaged, and Russia stood at the shoreline. He smiled warmly over a shoulder and dread swelled in the pit of England’s stomach. To British relief, the explosions in the distance seemed much farther east, leaving his ruined homeland behind. 

“You have Allies now,” Russia said genially. “Let’s work together nicely.” Stubbornly resisting the urge to protest, England bat away France’s roaming hands again. These wouldn’t be his first choice in companions in arms, but surely anything would be better than that solitary resistance.

**Author's Note:**

> \- After Germany invaded Poland, French troops stormed into Germany-- then turned back and held out at the Maginot line, defending the Western Front Germany attacked from during WWI. This lack of Western aggression after declaring war is called “the Phoney War” or maybe “Western Betrayal”. It lasted until the invasion of Belgium about 8 months later.
> 
> \- Prior to the invasion of Belgium, there _was_ The Norwegian Campaign which seemed a little unfair to do without much airtime given to Norway yet (he’s the one in hairclips, right?) so like, I apologize for sort of neglecting it.
> 
> \- When France began to fall, British troops [evacuated through Dunkirk](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Dynamo) in Northern France. This resulted n soldiers standing sometimes waist deep in the bay for days, under heavy fire by the Luftwaffe. The English retreat was successful thanks to the help from civilians, and the concentration on eliminating French forces.
> 
> \- England beating up injured France. After France surrendered to Germany, British forces were worried the French fleet would fall into German control…….. So they blew it up!! Im not kidding, whats up Arthur. Obviously this strained major relations between England and Free France. 
> 
> \- [Operation Sealion](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Sealion) was the German codeword for invading Britain. Unfortunately, Britain had the better navy and the whole thing prob would’ve been a big defeat for Hitler. [The Battle of Britain](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Britain) was a series of skirmishes along RAF bases and Germany, but Nazis were making pretty much no headway here. Because of this Germany switched to area bombing of British cities- [The Blitz](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_blitz). Hitler’s plan was to break down British moral and have the people demand a surrender or overthrow their current govt- like what happened during the [Spanish Civil War](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spanish_Civil_War). The Nazi tactic was intended to result in "eight million going mad". 
> 
> \- "Democracy is finished in Britain" is a quote by [Joseph P. Kennedy](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_P._Kennedy) (yeah former Prez Kennedy's father) who was serving as US ambassador to UK during the earlier parts of the war. While the American public was against intervening with the war in Europe, Roosevelt had him resign for these comments. 
> 
> \- America’s gift of weapons is in reference to the [Lend-Lease agreement](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lend_lease), where Britain got lots and lots of war supplies from the US. This was good in that it provided the Allies with some support (without sending American dudes to war), but also went against some public opinion again.
> 
> \- Russia joined the Allied Forces after Germany opted out of Operation Sealion for [Operation Barbarossa](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Barbarossa), turning on his Soviet buddies. 
> 
> \- fjhds so I was trying to stem away from the pattern of Eastern Europe WW2 fics and I didn’t do a very good job of it fjhskd look, I guess this one has a happy ending right? Sorry dudes, I'll do better next time


End file.
